


A Warrior (On a Journey Home)

by DoreyG



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Body Worship, Comfort Sex, Dom Q, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, M/M, Past Torture, Past Violence, Scar Worship, Undressing Their Partner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-26 20:14:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18289445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: Bond, leaning against the doorway with his formerly pristine shirt splattered with blood, gives him an innocent look. It doesn't work very well. He's known Bond for seven years now, has seen him in good times and bad, and if he's learnedanythingover that time it's that the man hasn't been innocent for several decades.





	A Warrior (On a Journey Home)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anarchycox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anarchycox/gifts).



"Seriously?" He asks wearily, folding his arms over his chest. "Again?"

Bond, leaning against the doorway with his formerly pristine shirt splattered with blood, gives him an innocent look. It doesn't work very well. He's known Bond for seven years now, has seen him in good times and bad, and if he's learned _anything_ over that time it's that the man hasn't been innocent for several decades.

"Are you injured?" He continues, sending the man an unimpressed look. They've been together for so long now, he should know better than to even _attempt_ it. "Because if you die in my apartment I _will_ take steps. I know how to dissolve a body, don't even try me."

"As reassuring as ever, Q." Bond, thankfully, abandons the innocent look. Shifts fully onto his feet, and instead gives him a faintly fond smile that has him shaking his head in exasperation. "Would it reassure you if I said that none of the blood was mine? There was a gang operation, a lot of very nasty people doing very nasty things. I'm sure you don't need to hear the details."

"I'm sure I _will_ hear the details tomorrow, at the debriefing," he retorts, but sighs. He doesn't want to admit it, he's certainly not going to show it, but something in his chest eases at the thought that Bond has proved the escape artist yet again. "I'm guessing you want the usual?"

Bond's smile is definitely fond now, his eyes warm. The knowledge that he's the only one who gets to see Bond like this shouldn't thrill him, he's _far_ too professional for that, but does anyway. "Please."

They have a routine, one established seven years ago when Bond limped back into London after the whole Scotland business and broke into his flat with dead eyes. He shouldn't have got used to it, getting used to anything is dangerous in their line of work, but it is what it is. He can't change what he feels for Bond, the possessive burn in his chest that sometimes feels like butterflies and sometimes feels like a wildfire, and so he might as well accept it.

He turns on his heel, without another word but with a speaking roll of his eyes, and walks towards the bathroom. He hears Bond follow him, a deliberately loud tramp of shoes on his carpet. Bond is entirely capable of moving as silently as a big cat, so he chooses to believe that his choice to courteously make noise is a sign that he's not alone in his strange mix of feelings.

His bathroom is unremarkable. Fairly well sized and with a bath in the centre, but otherwise with little to distinguish it. He prefers it that way, to be honest. He stops just before the bath, and turns to Bond with his eyebrow raised. Bond stops obediently a few steps behind him and stares back, a meaninglessly polite smile on his face.

Politeness suits him about as well as innocence. He rolls his eyes again, makes a brusque gesture that he trusts Bond will be able to read, "strip."

Or... Not. Bond just continues to stare at him, expression flawlessly polite. You'd think that he didn't understand the perfectly simple request, if it wasn't for the faint twitch of his lips and the burning hot expression in his eyes.

So it's one of _those_ nights, then. He gives Bond a _look_ , albeit not a particularly venomous one, and steps forwards until he can feel Bond's breath evenly across his face. He reaches up slowly, his movements sharp with exasperation, and undoes Bond's tie in a deliberate jerk, "I swear, you only do this because you like getting my hands dirty."

"Oh, but they dirty so prettily," Bond says, his tone low and intimate, and tilts his head to regard him better. Many people say that Bond is unreadable, even M and Moneypenny frequently bemoan his poker face, but at this point he knows the man almost as well as he knows himself. It's no surprise at all when Bond leans in, sucking in a breath as if he's preparing to ravage his mouth...

"Stop," he says softly, and permits himself a smile when Bond immediately stops dead. He's still human, after all, and he's not going to pretend that the amount of control he can exert doesn't excite him. "You knew the rules when you came here, Bond. This is about you, not me."

Bond studies him for a second, and then eases back. His tone is wry, already accepting the status quo, when he says, "it could be about both of us."

"Oh, it will be." He finally tugs the tie free, in one brutal movement that makes a gasp catch in Bond's chest, and sends it fluttering to the floor with casual disregard. "But on my terms, and my terms alone. Now stand still and let me deal with you properly."

Bond, for all his carefully cultivated attitude of scorn, is _very_ good at following orders when given the correct incentive. He stands still underneath his hands, submissive - and wouldn't all the women he beds on his missions thrill to see _that_ \- but responsive. His body is hot, even through his blood splattered clothing, and so clearly masculine and alive that he can barely stand it. He allows himself one quick pass of his hands, one quick feel of such vitality, before he gets down to business.

The jacket is the first thing to go. It's somehow less blood splattered than the shirt, he honestly wonders if Bond does _acrobatics_ to achieve his unique level of dishevelment after missions, but is still faintly stiff and leaves trails of sticky red on his hands. He sniffs, unimpressed, and lets it drop to the floor too. He has little patience for fine tailoring, he really doesn't understand why more people don't go for a functional sweater combo instead.

Bond remains still underneath his hands, shifting just enough to let the jacket slide easily down over his shoulders. The man is definitely taking an interest in proceedings, though. He can feel it in the slight quickening of breath, can see it in the familiar shine in Bond's eyes.

The shirt is next, and he _sincerely_ hopes that that's going to be the worst of it because unpleasant doesn't seem a word severe enough. He undoes every button with fastidious care, desperately wishing that he was the type of person who could just rip shirts off without even a thought, and then spreads the soaked fabric open over Bond's chest. He's pleased to see that Bond wasn't lying, for once. His chest is faintly reddened and damp, from where the blood has seeped through, but otherwise looks much as it ever does. Scarred and battered, from a life lived unwisely, but largely intact.

Bond is looking at him, a certain softness in his eyes that seems unsuited to the brutality of the rest of him. He clears his throat brusquely, to remind them both that they're not the kind of people to have a _moment_ , and shoves the fabric back over Bond's shoulders. It hits the floor with a faintly damp noise. He wonders if he can get Bond to clean it up later, to avoid traumatising yet _another_ maid.

The urge to pause, to appreciate the admittedly impressive sight of Bond shirtless, is strong but he manages to ignore it. Instead he drops his attention to Bond's lower half, which somehow appears to have avoided most of the damage. He drops smoothly to his knees, having perfected the art of looking vaguely dignified while doing utterly undignified things long ago, and unlaces Bond's fine shoes in a few easy movements. He's always been good with his hands.

Bond, as intelligent as ever even if he _does_ insist upon playing the thug in a public setting, shifts without needing to be told. He lifts first one foot, to have both shoe and sock quickly slid off, and then the other. As ever, his balance is incredible. He very deliberately doesn't touch, doesn't even grasp at his shoulders in an attempt to maintain dignity.

He rises again, biting back a smile that he refuses to fully acknowledge, and undoes Bond's belt in a smooth movement. There's something red smeared on the buckle, but he manages to both ignore and avoid it as he slides the leather out. He winds it around his hand a few times consideringly once it's out, but then abandons the idea and drops it with the rest of Bond's clothing. That isn't the game tonight.

Bond is excited, he can feel it quite intimately now. His nipples are peaked from more than just the faintly cool air, and there's a definite bulge beneath his trousers. More than that there's the look in his eyes, a certain fixed heat that has had so many spreading their legs and begging over the years. He continues to obey the rules, though, continues to remain perfectly still even as he pauses to catch his breath.

The fastenings of Bond's trousers are easy enough to undo even with the burgeoning erection underneath. The benefits of fine tailoring, he supposes. The urge to press his fingers down, to manipulate Bond over his clothing until he cracks, is another almost irresistible thing but he bites the inside of his cheek hard until he remembers what he's doing. He slides the fabric of the trousers down Bond's legs easily, watching alertly all the way. Luckily, yet again, there are only old marks on his thighs and then his calves. He's somehow entirely intact, another thing that sends a burn of relief through his chest.

Bond watches him silently but intensely, as he completes his inspection. When the trousers reach his ankles he does another smooth movement, stepping out of them with that catlike balance that he's famed for. He looks like he wants to touch, looks quite desperately like he wants to touch judging by the heat in his eyes, but doesn't. His control, surprising as it may be to some, is absolute.

The man's underwear is the only thing left on his body now. He rises to his feet, meets Bond's intense gaze for a long moment... And then smoothly hooks his fingers underneath the waistband and yanks them down his legs. The man's balls, he notes with a familiar wince, are scarred too. A shattered pattern that now only he and Bond know the full story behind.

Bond is entirely naked now, standing in his bathroom with an attitude of complete nonchalance. The man's body, he has to admit, is a masterwork. Muscular and tanned, scarred and twisted. He doesn't think he's ever met somebody who has survived as much as Bond. The man is the most impressive cockroach, and he uses the word with full respect for just how interesting cockroaches are, alive. He's walked away from every single wreck he's been in, has survived every event that has wiped out the people he loved.

What a melancholy thought. He winces at the drama of it, and takes a polite step backwards from the heat of Bond's body. "You seem perfectly well. For once."

"I'm always perfectly well."

"Somehow I very much doubt that." He arches an eyebrow, stares Bond down until the man gives a smirk and lowers his head. Only then does he turn away, walk towards that terribly useful bath in the centre of the room. "Would you like to bathe, while you're here?"

"Yes, that would be wonderful." Bond's tone is faintly mocking, but fond. He remains obediently in place, not even turning his head to watch him, as he bends to get the water the correct temperature. "Thank you, Q. Others may say that you're an overly officious stick in the mud, but I say that you're my favourite overly officious stick in the mud."

That _man_. He bites back another smile, one step away from an undignified grin, and remains bent over the bath as it fills. There's nothing wrong with being officious. At least it means that he actually gets things _right_.

The water pressure in his flat is excellent, one of the rare things he deems worth forking out for, and so the bath fills quickly. He gives it one final critical inspection, and then turns back to Bond with his eyebrow arched. Bond, yet again proving that intelligence that he hides so carefully from his foes, doesn't say a word. Instead he only steps forward, slides into the water with a slow breath out through his nose.

He kneels by the bath as soon as Bond gets in, deliberately ignoring the slight arch of the man's eyebrow. Takes up the conveniently placed soap and works up a decent lather. He watches Bond all the while, allows his eyes to trace consideringly over every part of the man's body that he can see.

Bond doesn't protest, still an exhibitionist to the extreme. He only rolls his shoulders slightly, showing that puckered bullet wound that'd only just healed when they first met, and sends him a lazy smile. "Enjoying the view?"

"Of course I am. I picked out this bathroom myself. It would be foolish if I didn't appreciate it," he says levelly, and yet again fights to keep his lips level as Bond smirks at him. "Sit forwards."

He starts with Bond's back at first, feeling the shift of tense muscles underneath his hands. He's pretty sure that he's the only one that Bond allows to see the tension anymore, it's a privilege that he's not insensible to. They shouldn't trust each other, neither of them are exactly in the business of _trusting_ , and yet they do. He is a human computer who cares mainly for his work, and yet he trusts Bond. Bond is a weapon who hasn't been soft since his childhood, and yet Bond trusts him. It's... Special.

Neither of them are ones for soppy speeches, they agreed so long ago, but that doesn't mean that he can't feel. He allows his fingers to trace along Bond's scarred shoulders in a moment of tenderness, and feels Bond lean a little back into it. And then he properly gets started.

There's an entry scar, or possibly an exit scar, on the back of Bond's shoulder. When they first went to bed together it'd barely healed, and Bond had given a soft grunt of pain when he'd accidentally grabbed it. Now he treats the scar more carefully, gently trails his fingers over it as he soaps up the puckered flesh. It's not the worst that Bond has on his body, not by far, but it is one of the most vivid. A reminder that he's human, as much as they may both wish otherwise.

Bond lets out a soft murmuring sound. He's entirely capable of being silent, overly capable of it if you listen to M, but when they're alone together he seems to see little harm in being vocal. He's not touched, he's not entirely sure that he's capable of being touched, but it is another special thing that he can't quite deny.

He moves on, gently soaping down Bond's back. The man really is a flawed masterpiece, made all the more impressive by his scars. He's been whipped, at some point in the past. He's pretty sure that Bond told him the story once, Bond has told him many stories when they've been curled up in bed together afterwards, but he may well have to ask again about the details. Some of the whip scars are light, barely cutting into the flesh. Some of them are significantly deeper, looking like they stop barely short of the bone. He presses his fingers into all of them, making sure to clean them out thoroughly even though the risk of infection is long past.

Bond is relaxed underneath his hands, relaxed in a way that he never seems to be with anybody else. Usually he's a fist of a person, a coiled spring ready to spring into violence at any moment. But here, in his bathroom with the two of them alone... He seems to ease, seems to become a less intense version of the beast he's made himself.

He moves lower down Bond's back, going more carefully now. There are a few miscellaneous scars here, the result of blunt force trauma. Some are a faintly eerie shade of white, some are a surprisingly livid shade. All are faintly raised away from his skin, bumps underneath his thorough fingers. He doesn't need to ask about any of these, the story etched into his memory. He thinks that he may be the only person alive who knows the truth about Vesper Lynd, who knows just how deeply it hurt Bond when he lost her.

Bond stills under his hands briefly, as he cleans _those_ scars, but remains relaxed. He remembers the night that Bond told him, remembers the pain in Bond's eyes and the way that the big man clutched at him, and feels touched. They know each other, by now, they care for each other in a way entirely unique and entirely suited to them.

He rubs at one final scar, just at the base of Bond's spine. A knife scar, faded to a pretty shade of pink all this time and sitting like a reminder of Bond's near invincibility. He smiles to himself, as he cleans that one. If he was much inclined to it, which he isn't, he would feel a distinct amount of pity towards the poor person who tried to take out Bond so sloppily.

Bond feels his amusement, and shifts a little underneath his hands. It's a playful movement, a little tease and a little push, but he stops it smoothly. Takes his hands sharply away from Bond's back until the man sighs and settles to stillness again.

_There_.

He smiles a little, taking a certain pleasure in how automatically Bond obeys him, and shifts around until he can look Bond in the face. The man gives him an amused look, one that is faintly mocking, but remains obediently in place. Doesn't even twitch as he soaps up his hands again and lifts them to his face. Maybe he should try this when Bond is in the field, whisper calm instructions into Bond's ear and see how quickly the man jumps to them.

Bond blows out a slow breath through his nose, as he runs his fingers over the tiny scars left by Blofeld's torture, but doesn't jerk away. He appreciates that. Blofeld didn't leave as big a mark as Silva, but he still scored points. He makes sure to be very careful as he cleans Bond's face, rubs slowly down his neck. He refuses to abuse the vulnerability that he's been so carefully offered.

Once he's done with the face and neck he moves briskly lower, not wanting to linger on any sort of pain. He drops his fingers to the mark on Bond's chest, the other half of the bullet wound on his back. This one is messier, a gnarled knot of flesh that serves as a wonderful argument for _not_ removing bullets from yourself with a knife. He lifts his eyes briefly, as he cleans it, makes sure that Bond sees the heartfelt roll of his eyes.

Bond only grins, remains obediently still as he finishes cleaning it. They've had that particular silent conversation a thousand times, have even had the verbal version of it once or twice. Bond sometimes calls him a nag, but doesn't seem to mind at all. He doesn't nag with the expectation of actually changing anything. Bond is who he is, and he's never particularly had the impulse to halt hurricanes. 

He pauses, after he's cleaned Bond's scar, and taps his fingers thoughtfully just over the man's nipple for a second before changing tack and heading for the arms instead. It's Bond's turn to roll his eyes, but he ignores that just as deftly as he soaps up the man's bicep. If asked, he can say that he was distracted by the muscles. If pressed, he can admit that he was fascinated by the pattern of scars that criss cross the skin.

Bond has a healthy disrespect for glass. Either that, or an utter lack of understanding that glass can _cut_. He's smashed through so many windows in his time that it's a miracle he's still alive, and the marks are all over his body. He traces the whip thin lines across the man's arms and wonders if some of the glass is still stuck in there. The thought makes his chest ache a little, strangely, but it'd probably serve the man right.

He focuses on the left arm thoroughly, until Bond is faintly tense with impatience yet again, and then finally drops his attention to Bond's hand. He lifts it up and soaps it thoroughly, to the point of indecency. Runs his fingers over the wrist, across the palm and in between Bond's own digits with fastidious care. One of Bond's fingertips was cut off a few years ago, a particularly lucky slash with a knife, and though it's grown back the tip is still strangely flat and undeniably rough. He pays special attention to that part.

Bond is watching him with a certain intensity, he can feel it against his skin. He knows that if he looks up, that if he turns his head just a little, that Bond will be looking at him like he's a four course meal. He finds it hard to resist that look, even now with all that experience. If he meets it he'll find himself flushing automatically, will find himself abandoning the game half done for just a taste of pleasure.

He doesn't meet it. He's been tested at a genius level IQ, he's hardly going to do something _that_ stupid. Instead he lingers for a moment more, tracing Bond's killer hands, and then smoothly shifts to Bond's right arm instead. The man is a little less scarred there, somehow, but still isn't entirely intact. There are faint puckers up his arm, hasty tears that show a certain lack of care.

Bond told him about that time in Montenegro once, told him about injecting the vaccine into his own arm. He listened with fascination throughout, paying special attention to Bond's description of how the poison moving through his system felt. Afterwards he immediately started asking sharp questions, theorising about upgrades to make the process smoother and tests that could be done. It was the first time that Bond looked at him fondly, a certain warm surprise in his eyes as he listened. He remembers that intimately now, with Bond's gaze hot on the side of his face.

He blows out air through his nose, trying not to appear distracted, and moves on. He's aware that he's growing a bit sloppier now, is aware that Bond probably notices, but can't entirely bring himself to care. He rubs down the rest of Bond's chest, vindictively making sure to brush his hands firmly against the man's nipples. He might be coming slightly undone, unfortunately undone, but that doesn't mean that he has to be the only one.

Bond is certainly taking an interest in proceedings. He's fully erect now, his cock flushed and hard between his thighs. It speaks of how much they both enjoy this game, how much they trust each other, that he hasn't yet reached to take it in hand. Instead he only sits there patiently, watching him. His only movement the involuntary clench of his stomach, as he cleans over the scars there.

He pauses for a second, mainly to catch his breath, and carefully rubs his fingers over yet another bullet scar that Bond has picked up over the years. This one is in the meat of his side, in the fleshy area just above his hip. It's yet another knotted one, probably dug out with a knife on the run yet again. A brief surge of annoyance, undeniably fond, rises up within him and he welcomes it. Anything to distract from giving into heedless lust and abandoning what they both need entirely.

Bond shifts just slightly, a small movement that makes the water slosh, and he absent mindedly pinches the man on his scar. Luckily, it seems to be one of those that has little sensation left in it. Bond only huffs, a touch grumpily, and settles back to stillness. He doesn't stop staring, but it seems more inquiring than anything now. Another sign that Bond trusts him enough to follow his lead.

He trails his hand down Bond's leg almost absently, working over the scar tissue there. Bond's legs are just as muscular as his arms, the legs of a man used to running towards endless danger. The scars on them are lighter, generally just surface cuts as opposed to deep scores. Even Bond is cautious enough to avoid a direct injury to the vein in his thigh. He finds himself incredibly glad about that fact.

Bond's only proper injury on his upper leg is some scar tissue around his knee, an injury he picked up on a train long ago. The man once joked that it was a particularly cruel train guard, when he asked about it the second time they went to bed together, but eventually told him a daring story of gangsters and mayhem and an unfortunate moment involving a train door. He traces it now, moves his fingers gently over the ravaged flesh. Wonders, at how Bond can still walk when he's been injured so badly. Wonders, at how Bond manages to survive when he treats himself so recklessly...

He's suddenly impatient, unwilling to wait much longer. Before Bond can shift again, before Bond can even huff out another amused breath, he trails his fingers back up and between Bond's legs. Bond's balls are warm in his hand, the flesh undeniably ragged as he cups them. The sight of the man's scarring there is enough to make even him wince, most of the time. The first time that Bond told him the story was the first time that they kissed, his breath catching in his throat at the thought.

Bond does make a noise at that, an unrestrained one, and spreads his legs a little to give him more room. The man is generally good at controlling himself, he has to be considering his chosen path in life, but he can see the signs of that control eroding. The flush of tanned skin, the catch in Bond's breathing, the way he holds himself absolutely still as if struggling with some compulsion. He's a beauty, like this. Laid bare in the best possible way.

He caresses the man's balls for a moment more, pretending that this is still about cleaning. Feels the weight of them in his hand, feels the heat of them against his flesh and appreciates the ridged scarring that speaks of yet another thing survived. He could honestly sit here all day, touching Bond like this. It takes all of his effort to unwrap his fingers, to slowly sit back on his heels and prepare to admit defeat...

"Q." But Bond, as ever, is the first one to break. He finally glances up at the man's face again, surprised but pleased, and the intensity there is enough to take his breath away. "Please?"

Something swells in his chest. Something unwise and dangerous and exactly what he thought he could avoid when he started this all those years ago... But something warm, something soft, something that feels so right that he couldn't resist it even if he tried. Even if he wanted to try.

Bond isn't the only one capable of recklessness.

He stands up, in one gratifyingly smooth movement. Takes a quick step back from the bath, as to not bump anything, and gets started on his own clothes. The jumper goes off quickly, dropped heedlessly on the floor just to the left of Bond's pile of clothing. The shirt goes off just as swift. He slides off his slippers and socks easily, kicks them away. Unbuttons his trousers and draws them down his hips. By the time he removes his underwear little more than a minute has passed, and Bond is still staring at him with those incredibly intense eyes.

He can't resist the urge to preen a little under the perusal, yet another reminder of his humanity, but doesn't feel inclined to waste too much time. He steps towards the bath, arching an imperious eyebrow, and is pleased when Bond takes the hint and hastily shifts forward. It's a testament to his experience, that the man manages to make even that awkward movement seem somehow elegant.

His bath is big, another luxury he splashed out on. It seemed sensible to do so, after the fifth time Bond turned up at his flat covered in blood. He slides into the water behind Bond, letting out a little hum as he does so. The man has been in the water long enough that it's cooled slightly, is now an acceptable temperature for actual humans as opposed to just government killing machines. He takes a moment to appreciate that, before he reaches for the soap on the side of the bath again.

This isn't usually the way he prefers doing things. If given the choice, he usually prefers proper lube and preparing Bond in his bed for hours. But he doesn't think that either of them are in the mood to get out of the bath, get dried and then move politely to the bed. No. This has to be soon, as soon as possible, and he takes a certain thrill in that as he slides his hand underneath the water and watches Bond arch up to take him.

Bond has slept with a lot of people, both men and women. He approves of that, because it makes this part so much _easier_. Bond knows how to loosen his muscles, how to take things that a normal person would whimper at the thought of. He barely seems to notice the finger that slides into him, only lets out a slightly breathy sigh and leans his elbows on the side of the bath.

Technically Bond doesn't need fingering, but he likes fingering and so they've reached a careful compromise. He rotates the one finger within Bond thoroughly, stretching as much as he can. He takes pleasure in how Bond's muscles clench around him, in how Bond's breathing picks up that tiniest bit. He thrusts slowly and deliberately, until Bond is rocking slowly back against him with a certain level of desperation.

And then he smiles to himself, content in the knowledge that he's the only person who can actually get Bond to fall apart, and removes the finger sharply. Positions himself, as Bond is still huffing out laughter at his brusqueness, and slides home in one smooth movement. 

_Bliss_.

Bond is hot around him, and distractingly tight even with all his experience. He has to bite down on his lip for a long few moments once he's in, just trying to control himself. Bond, surprisingly, remains largely still and obedient. The only signs that he's just as affected, just as undone, are the clench of his hands on the side of the tub and another ever so soft exhale.

He takes in a deep breath of his own, grounding himself, and only then starts to move. He moves slowly at first, as slowly as he can, and tries to stretch every single sensation out. The deliberate clench of Bond's muscles around him, the heat of Bond's body deftly balancing above him, the sheer sensation of having this man who he cares for so deeply submitting to him heart and soul.

Bond has been remarkably patient, patient in a way that'd probably send M into shock, but the man has his limits even when they're alone together. He remains largely still for a few moments more, hands still clenching on the sides of the bath, and then obviously decides that politeness is for fools and starts to rock back into his thrusts. As ever, his experience shows loud and clear. He _squeezes_ on every downwards roll of his hips, puts a divine pressure on his cock that no man could resist.

He's been trying to maintain his control, trying to keep the game up even in these circumstances, but Bond makes a compelling argument for abandoning it entirely. He catches his breath, as much as he can in these circumstances, and then slowly increases the tempo of his thrusts. Tilts his hips just slightly, so that he can get deeper and deeper into Bond with every roll of their bodies together.

Bond isn't often vocal in bed, he supposes the man has had it trained out of him by so many near death situations, but he does let out a low groan when he hits his prostrate. His hands clench so hard on the bath that his knuckles go white for a moment, and then he lets go and uses his admirable core strength to shove back onto him more firmly. The man is properly riding him now, desperate for it in a way that few people get to see.

He is entirely aware of the privilege. In his rare whimsical moments, the ones that usually occur when Bond has passed out next to him, he imagines putting up posters all over headquarters announcing the uniqueness of the experience. For now, though, he leaves all whimsy aside and simply grabs hard onto Bond's hips. He matches the man thrust for thrust, rolling his hips hard and hitting the prostrate on every upwards roll. He wants to take Bond apart, he wants to shatter the man into pieces and watch how they glint.

Bond seems entirely amenable to this. Has always been entirely amenable to this, ever since the first time he crawled through his window and sprawled out on his bed. The man is definitely starting to come apart now, definitely starting to unravel in a way sure and beautiful. He watches with breathless appreciation, watches how Bond's shoulders shake and Bond's breath quickens and Bond's cock bobs oh so desperately.

He's not so far away himself, only a step behind and quickly gaining. The breath rasps in his lungs, desperate and fast. His entire body shakes, and it takes all his concentration to maintain the accuracy of his thrusts. He can feel himself become slick with sweat, slick with the sheer joyous effort of matching Bondt. He feels invincible, on top of the world. He feels like they could do absolutely anything, as long as they had _this_ to look forward to after.

_And_ -

As if reading his mind, Bond tenses around his cock at that thought. The man rolls his hips for a moment more, lost in the haze of his own pleasure, and then lets out a ragged growl and comes hard. The force of it is enough to send Bond rocking forwards, enough to have him tensing and shaking and falling apart entirely just from the push of his cock.

He's not made of stone. Maybe a bit of wiring, but certainly not stone. At the clench of Bond around him, the sound of Bond desperately coming apart, he loses his rhythm entirely. A few moments later he's coming himself, a desperate cry of his own flying out into the air. For a long few moments there's only a sense of pleasure, a white haze and the warmth of Bond's body still clenching around his softening cock.

And then... He can breath again. He closes his eyes for a moment, allows himself to pant into Bond's neck, and then slowly forces himself to straighten. Winces only a little, as the man takes the hint and slides off him with a gusty sigh of his own. They sit separately for a long few seconds, gathering themselves. For once he feels entirely at peace, one of the many nice side effects of being Bond's go to squeeze.

Bond is the first one to move, eventually. He stretches like a cat, a shift of muscles that he appreciates with an absent kind of weariness, and then stands in one smooth movement. The water cascades off him, showcasing his muscles, as he turns back and arches an eyebrow. "Convinced that I'm intact now, Q?"

"Mostly," he says, not bothering to hide his appreciation. Bond smirks down at him, and he can't help a grin in return - that warmth blossoming in his chest again, unwise but oh so necessary. "I may need to check again, though, just to make absolutely certain. Take me to bed, Bond?"

And Bond, with that same warmth glowing in his eyes, obeys.


End file.
